Page 125 of Falling for You

And the thing is, once Mom mentioned Aunt Tell, she didn’t stop. She started regaling me with stories about their childhood together, the fights they had as teenagers and the trouble they got up to behind my grandmother’s back. She described Aunt Tell’s appearances on the stage and howproud she was, how talented Tell had always been and how she always performed for her in their shared bedroom. Every time she spoke of her it made the need to bring Aunt Tell back to New York burn a little stronger in my chest. If Mom looked this happy when speaking about her, if sherememberedso much about her and their lives together, then imagine what could happen if she saw her in person and they spent some time together. Or even just spoke on the phone? Or received a letter from her? At this point, I would have settled for anything. Weeks went by and my calls, letters, emails – you name it – were all ignored. Aunt Tell didn’t want to be found, she made that pretty clear.

I never told Mom that I’d been writing to ask Aunt Tell to come to New York. I couldn’t tell her that her own sister was ignoring her, and I had no idea why. But I could go to London and find out myself. So that’s what I did, and that’s what led me to this moment. Sat in a coffee shop off Oxford Circus, sheltering from the rain in the middle of October in London. Pillar-box-red buses swishing by, people ping-ponging clipped voices back and forth, strangers at the counter ordering coffee. I arrived four days ago.

I lean back in my seat. I’m nestled in a corner, right by the window. It’s a small café, the walls painted a lemon yellow with rusted orange shutters and wonky, teal metal tables. The café is buzzing with people, nipping in and out, clasping their coffees and paper bags filled with glistening treats. Condensation swells at the window, with teardrops of water running down at the corners and pooling in the deep-green window frames. I prod my phone and it looks back up at me lifelessly.

I’m currently working as a writer for a New York magazine,Take the Time, reviewing lifestyle events and activities. It’s a decent job, and I spend most of my week nipping into new bars and restaurants, the odd art gallery and – if I’m very lucky – a Broadway show. Then I write about the experience. They have offices all over the world, and my editor Stefan barely batted an eye when I suggested I transfer to the London office for six months. That was my first sign from the universe that going to London to track down Aunt Tell wasn’t a bad idea. The second was the reaction of Stevie, who immediately kicked out his housemate (who, to be fair, he did often refer to as ‘Awful Albert’) and started sending me an itinerary of what we could do together. He failed to mention that, as a performer, he works six days a week and so is never around to do all these fun things. Hence my sitting alone in a café all morning.

I sip my bitter, black coffee as my plan circles around my mind.

But I’m not here for fun. I just need to find Aunt Tell and bring her back to New York. She will make Mom happy and that will make everything a little bit better.

After eking out my coffee for as long as possible and avoiding eye contact from other customers who are desperate for a seat, I finally step outside into the crisp afternoon when Mom calls. It’s our usual upbeat conversation. She’s always brighter in the mornings, and laps up the details of the café, the hubbub of Oxford Street and the descriptions of the Londoners swarming like a pack of ants.

After we say goodbye, I plan to go back to the flat, but the jeers and commotion of football-mad Londoners all crammed inside various pubs is too fascinating to ignore. Also, I know that Stevie won’t be home from work until way after midnight, and there’s only so long that I can sit staring at the four walls, waiting for him to come through the door.

So, I walk into the first pub that looks as if it may have a seat for me, pull out my notebook and start operation Bring Back Tell.

Also, it aids one of my resolutions about making the most of my new life in London: getting into football. We’ve all seenTed Lasso: surely I can be the new loveable Yank? Just without the moustache and the optimism? I catch sight of myself in the pub window. I wouldn’t call myself unattractive, but let’s say in all these British films I’ve watched, I wouldn’t be cast as the Jude Law character. My hair is dark and curly, and my beard is unruly. In my defence, my hair would be better if it wasn’t constantly damp from all the British rain.

I look down at my notebook. I have Tell’s number, I know I could just call her and ask if I could come round. But I’ve already done that, haven’t I? She made it pretty clear to me in New York that she didn’t want to hear from me, for some unknown reason, even though she was happy to have Stevie stay with her when he was at dance school. Not that Stevie relays it in the same way on the rare occasion that you can get him to talk about it using more words than ‘She’s a dick.’ So I need a new plan of attack.

‘Excuse me?’ I catch the eye of the bartender. ‘Can I have another one?’

He is a portly man, wearing the same blue football shirt as the rest of the crowd, with large, bushy eyebrows which he raises at me, expertly.

‘Sure,’ he says, picking up my glass. ‘Same again?’

I narrow my eyes at the range of ales, each named more whimsically than the last. So far I’ve tried the Hoptimus Prime (surprisingly average), Fursty Ferret (quite nice) and Golden Champion (not for me). Each pump has an eccentric character on the front, and I fixate on a cartoon rabbit wearing boxing gloves, eyeballing me. This needs to be my last pint; my head is feeling a little fuzzy.

‘Hopping Hare, please,’ I say, and the bartender nods and plucks a clean glass from under the sink.

I look around as a wave of ‘go on’s starts up around me, and each person lurches out of their seat like pieces of popcorn. One of the players is racing down the pitch with the ball, and despite myself I suck in a breath. The bartender is frozen mid-pour. The player is flanked by two men from the opposite team as he gets closer to the goal, jabbing their feet around him to try and get the ball. Effortlessly, the player spins the ball away from them and before I can blink, he curves his foot round the ball and launches it into the air.

My heart is racing as I watch, and I suddenly feel as sucked into the TV screen as the rest of the pub. His teammate sees the ball, jumps into the air and knocks his head against the ball. It bounces off his hand and smacks the back of the net, flying past the goalkeeper’s outstretched hands and scoring into the goal.

Before I can stop myself, I throw myself off my chair andcheer, punching the air. My ears are ringing and I feel so alive that it takes me a moment to notice that nobody else is cheering. Actually, everyone else looks pretty furious.

‘It’s a handball, mate. It doesn’t count.’

I turn around to see an older man next to me. He’s probably in his late fifties, wearing a flat cap, and is smiling at me kindly.

I quickly sit back down and take my pint off the bartender, trying to control the embarrassment rippling up my body.

‘Ah, right,’ I say, laughing, ‘because he hit it with his hand, I guess?’

The man nods. ‘That’s right.’

I take a sip of my new beer. This one is biscuity and slightly foamy. It’s the nicest one so far.

‘Well, that makes sense,’ I mumble into my pint. ‘It is called football, after all.’

‘That it is.’

I glance around to check the rest of the pub aren’t pointing and cruelly laughing at me, like my imagination would have them, but they’re back to being fully absorbed in the game. Thank God.

‘You’re new to football, then?’ the man asks.

I look back at him and nod. ‘Guilty as charged.’